My trek to The Grange took me past the bridleway entrance to Belcher Pike’s wagon. I had plenty of time before I met with Noah and decided to take a quick detour. Call me curious, but I just wondered if the “never leave a dying gypsy alone” palaver was true or just for tourists.
As I drew closer to the clearing, I was startled to hear someone sobbing his or her heart out, and I just had to investigate. It was just as well I was wearing my khaki-colored safari jacket—I’d be difficult to spot.
Slowly, I crackled my way through the undergrowth until I had a good view of Belcher Pike’s wagon. Dropping to a crouch, I headed toward a handy elderberry bush and crawled underneath its branches.
There, just a few yards away, tough-nosed Ruby sat on a fallen tree trunk shedding copious tears.
The wagon door opened and Jimmy appeared with a china mug in his hand.
“Drink this,” he said, sitting down by her side—presumably this was tea, the only thing to drink in a crisis.
“Don’t cry, luv,” said Jimmy, putting his arm around Ruby’s shoulders. He tried to pull her toward him but she sat there, rigid, just staring ahead.
Perhaps Belcher Pike had died. A lump came into my throat. Ruby’s grief was so tangible that it tugged at my heartstrings. Quite unexpectedly, I was consumed by a wave of acute homesickness.
Suddenly, Ruby pushed Jimmy away and stood up. “This is all your fault, Dad!”
Dad?
I was confused. Did this mean Jimmy Kitchen and Dora Pike were man and wife? I remembered Dora saying she went by her maiden name but had never thought to ask why. Maybe she was a feminist? I’d been to Jimmy’s wagon, and there had been no sign of a woman’s touch, and the same could be said of Dora’s Winnebago lacking that manly vibe. In fact, Jimmy had led me to believe he was a widower! Perhaps they were estranged? Could gypsies get divorced? I wasn’t sure.
“You don’t know what you’re talking—”
“I know what you did!” Ruby flung the mug to the ground, spilling liquid everywhere.
“Ruby, luv,” Jimmy pleaded. “It’s not what you think—”
“Don’t! You always say that.” Ruby ran to the wagon and jumped up the steps, slamming into Dora as she poked her head out of the door. “What’s going on?” she demanded.
Ruby pointed an accusing finger at her father, who was still seated. “Why don’t you ask him? He’s doing it again! Don’t you have any self-respect?”
“Keep your voice down.” Dora shot Jimmy a filthy look.
“I want to leave this place!” Ruby cried. “Why do we have to stay?”
Jimmy had his back to me, so I couldn’t see his expression. “We’ll leave when we’re ready, and that’s final,” he said coldly, all warmth from his voice gone. “Get on with your work.”
I only moved a fraction of an inch, but it was enough to startle a brace of pheasants that took flight with their distinctive cry.
Jimmy spun around. I drew back into the elderberry bush as far as I could and closed my eyes tightly.
“Noah? Is that you?” shouted Jimmy.
I sat as quiet as a mouse, trying to make sense of what I’d just heard. Was Belcher Pike a week away from being snapped up by the Grim Reaper? What exactly had Jimmy done to make Ruby so upset? What exactly was he “doing again”?
Without another word, the two women disappeared into Belcher’s wagon. Jimmy stayed put. Several times he looked over in my direction. Time passed. All was quiet. Finally, dusk fell, and I was able to make my retreat.
I had quite a lot of questions for Noah, and the Mudge Lane mystery was just the beginning.
26
I took the animal track that led back to the rear of The Grange. It was dark by the time I reached the courtyard, but a quarter-moon shone brightly in the night sky.
A solitary light shone down from an upstairs window. New signs had been erected—BEWARE OF THE DOG, BEWARE OF THE OWNER, and YOU ARE ON CAMERA—though I saw no sign of all three.
To my dismay, Annabel’s car was still parked next to Topaz’s red Capri. With just under an hour to kill, I had toyed with the idea of scrounging a cup of tea before casually mentioning that her attempts to sabotage the gypsies recycling efforts had been caught on film.
Annabel’s presence had certainly put the kibosh on that.
What could they be doing? Watching television? Playing Scrabble? Sharing a bottle of wine? Would Annabel tell her new best friend that she suspected I was the daughter of The Fog? Wait! I was the daughter of The Fog!
I wandered aimlessly around, repeatedly checking my watch. The minutes seemed to crawl by. Perhaps I should check the recycling bins? Tony had seemed impressed at their neatness, and at least it would give me something to do.
It was even darker behind the pigsty. I took out my Mini Maglite.
Banked against the wall stood Ronnie’s recycling bins. Tony was right. Someone had been tidying up. Each colored bin was filled to overflowing with the correct contents. Whatever couldn’t fit in lay on the ground in an orderly pile. Even the rusted iron pylons and scraps of indecipherable metal had been neatly stacked to one side.
Suddenly, a hand was clapped over my mouth; my right arm was yanked up behind me and my face thrust against the rough stone wall. Instinctively I lashed out. My foot connected with a leg, and there was a yelp of pain.
Breaking free, I whipped out my handy-sized Mace Screecher and spun around. “I’ve got Mace,” I shouted. “And I’ll use it!”
“Vicky?”
“Noah!” I gasped, catching his startled expression in the beam of my flashlight.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. “I thought you were on our side. Aunt Dora said we were being framed, but I never thought it would be you.”
“Of course it’s not me.” I lowered my Mini Maglite, feeling a tad shaken. “I was just having a look around.”
“Since when have you been interested in recycling?”
“This is Devon. We’re all interested in recycling. When Tony told me you had tidied up the courtyard, I wanted to see for myself. You’ve done a good job.”
“Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?” Noah seemed to relax a little. “Where’s your car?”
“I left it at Ponsford Ridge. My colleague Annabel is a friend of the owner of The Grange. I didn’t want her to see it and get the wrong idea.”
“And what idea would that be?”
I paused, not quite sure how to answer. “That I was spying on her.”
“And here I was thinking it had something to do with me,” he said softly.
I gave a nervous laugh, acutely aware of a sudden frisson between us.
“You’ve got quite a kick,” he said. “My leg hurts.”
“So does my arm.”
“I have just the cure for that, but you’ll have to come to my wagon.”
“My arm doesn’t hurt that much.”
“I thought you wanted to talk about the woman in Mudge Lane?” said Noah.
“Can’t we talk about her here?”
“Come and have a drink,” he teased. “I don’t bite.”
“All right.”
Noah took my flashlight and switched it off. “I prefer walking by moonlight.” He held out his hand. “Come on.”
I refused it, but I did follow him through fields filled with the fragrant smells of a summer night.
I started to get nervous. It wasn’t that I thought anything bad would happen—I was not one of those stupid women in horror movies who were too dumb to live—I just hadn’t felt so violently attracted to anyone before. But as long as I kept my wits about me, remembered to actually talk about poor dead Carol Pryce, and, most of all, refused all offers of alcohol, I was sure all would be well.
We passed Ruby’s battered VW camper and Jimmy’s crimson wagon. Noah’s green-and-yellow wagon was parked at the far corner of the field. Both horses whickered a greeting and ambled toward us.
Noah stopped, delving into his pocket,
and gave each pony a handful of green pellets. I kept my distance.
“Don’t you like horses?” he said stroking their velvet muzzles.
“I’m a bit afraid of them,” I said. “I was brought up in the city. The only horse I rode was at the fairground.”
“Hold out your hand.” He didn’t wait for a reply, just took it. “Hold it flat, like this.” He put a few pellets in the middle and gently held it under the skewbald pony’s muzzle. “This is Ellie.”
Ellie’s lips tickled on my skin and made me squirm but Noah held my hand steady. “What’s a city girl like you doing in Devon?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I like long stories.”
We continued onto the wagon. Noah paused at the bottom of the steps, gallantly saying, “After you.”
It was dark inside until Noah flipped a switch and several hurricane lamps simultaneously burst into rich golden glows. The interior was gloriously decorated in deep crimson and yellow, with horse-head motifs painted in gold leaf.
I felt cheated. “Is that electricity?”
Noah laughed. “It’s a portable generator.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“You won’t. Honda makes a silent one,” he said. “The EU30i. I can even run my laptop.”
“Laptop?” I said with dismay.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve even got Garage-Band installed in my computer.” He gestured to his guitar, propped in the corner. “I’m working on a CD of songs. I love gypsy life, but I want to do something more. Break away from—” He stopped. “Never mind.”
But I understood more than he could possibly understand.
There was the traditional queenie stove and a ton of fitted mirrors, but whereas a built-in bow-shaped cabinet spanned the width of Jimmy’s wagon, a heavy curtain on a brass rail stretched across the rear of Noah’s.
“What’s behind the curtain?”
In three quick strides, Noah drew it back with a flourish. “My bed.”
I felt my face redden. Noah’s bed seemed designed for lust-filled encounters. It looked very much like a berth aboard a sleeper train—only bigger. How could I have ever considered hedge-jumper Dave Randall or tightfisted Robin Berry suitable candidates for such a monumental occasion in my life? Of course, I wasn’t intending to do anything right now, but I couldn’t think of a more romantic location to make me a woman.
“Go ahead. Take off your shoes,” said Noah. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“That’s okay,” I said quickly. “I’m happy standing.”
“Wait! I almost forgot,” said Noah, heading for the door. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
The moment he left I gave his wagon the usual once-over. I was pleased to see a copy of the Gipping Gazette atop a pile of newspapers on the counter, opened to the Gipping Roundup page—a summary of local societies, upcoming events, and various fund-raisers. The newspaper was dated three weeks ago. I took a quick look at the others in the stack, surprised that they were all from north Cornwall—the Padstow Packet, the Tintagel Times, and the Camelford Chronicle.
“These are for you.”
I gave a guilty jump. “Sorry. Oh!”
Noah thrust a posy of violets and wood anemones into my hands.
Stunned, I said, “They’re beautiful.”
“Like you.”
“Gosh. I don’t know what to say.” I was never good at receiving a compliment and desperately wanted to change the subject. “Are you going to Cornwall?”
“Yes,” said Noah. “In a week or two.”
“What about your grandfather, Belcher Pike?” I said. “I thought he couldn’t be moved?”
“That’s right, he can’t—” Noah stammered. “It’s really up to Uncle Jimmy. Aunt Dora, too.”
“Do you always get the local newspapers before you visit a town?”
“Why?” Noah said sharply.
“How do you get hold of them?”
“What do you mean?”
“If you don’t live in the area, it’s practically impossible unless you can find them online,” I said. “A lot of the smaller newspapers don’t even have websites. The Gazette doesn’t.”
Noah shrugged. “I don’t know. Aunt Dora has connections everywhere—”
“But—”
“I don’t want to talk about newspapers or my aunt,” said Noah. “I want to talk about you.”
Noah took the posy and put it on the counter. He steered me toward the bed. “Sit down. I promise, I’m a gentleman.”
Feeling only slightly reassured, I perched on the edge. But I was not going to take off my shoes!
Noah reached into a small built-in cupboard and pulled out a bottle of wine. “My cousin Ruby makes the best elderberry wine,” he said, and poured us each a glass.
“I can’t have too much,” I protested. “I’m driving.”
“It’s just fruit,” said Noah. “Hardly any alcohol at all.”
Two very small glasses later, I was sprawled on the bed listening to Noah playing a Willie Nelson country-and-western song on his guitar. “Mama don’t let your boys grow up to be”—he paused—“gypsies.”
Just as Noah had promised, he was the perfect gentleman, and now I found myself longing for him to make a move. Instead he regaled me with wonderful stories of life on the open road, but they were also tinged with sadness.
He told me of evictions that resulted in wagons, handed down from generation to generation, being burned to the ground; of being bullied in the few schools he had attended; and of the elderly Romanies who had died before their time because of lack of crucial hospital care.
“I owe my aunt and uncle everything,” said Noah. “But sometimes I want to be my own man. What about you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Who brought you up?”
“Bit like you . . .” I hesitated. “Just an aunt and uncle. Marie and Derek.” They were my code names for Mum and Dad.
“Where? You’re not from the south.”
“No, I’m not.” I was beginning to get uncomfortable. This was exactly why I could not afford to get involved with anyone. I felt a sudden flash of anger against my parents. Would I ever lead a normal life? Find love? Would I always be looking over my shoulder?
“Why are you really in Gipping-on-Plym, Vicky?” said Noah. “Come on, you can tell me.”
“Work,” I said. “And speaking of which, you said you had something to tell me about Carol Pryce.”
“Carol Pryce?” Noah said. “You mean the woman in Mudge Lane?”
“I thought you knew who she was!”
“She could be an Irish traveler,” said Noah slowly. “What do the cops think?”
“I told you, they don’t seem to care,” I said. “But I do.”
“Why bother?” Noah edged toward me. “We true Romanies don’t like the Irish travelers, and vice versa. They’re scum.”
“I have to bother! I write the obituaries!” Really, this elderberry wine had quite a buzz to it. “I found her body!”
“You’re very cute.” Noah took my wine glass and set it down. He leaned toward me. “Can I kiss you?”
I didn’t have time to say no as our lips touched. I braced myself for the inevitable descent into dizziness, but to my disappointment, I remained perfectly aware. It was as if I were a spectator in my own love scene. I opened my eyes and met Noah’s staring right back into mine. It was so unnerving that I closed them again.
True, Noah’s kisses were pleasant enough, but they had none of Steve’s passion. I also didn’t care for his mustache. It really tickled.
Suddenly, my phone rang. The mood was ruined. I jumped like a scalded cat.
A glance at my caller ID confirmed my worst fears. Blast! It was Steve. “Sorry. I have to take this,” I said. “It’s work.”
I wriggled off the bed and walked to the far end of the wagon in the vague hope I would be out of earshot.
“Hello?” I gave a big yawn and
hoped I sounded as if I were half-asleep. Good grief! Was it really half past eleven? “Who is this?”
“You know who it is, doll. It’s Steve.”
“I was almost asleep.”
There was a pause. “Where’s your car?”
A peculiar feeling came over me. “Where are you?”
“Outside your house. Mrs. Evans said you hadn’t come back yet.” There was a muffled anguish cry. “Oh God. You’re with Phil, aren’t you?”
“I’m at Barbara’s,” I said, very much aware that Noah had untied the ribbon from his ponytail. His hair fell to his shoulders. Now he really did look like a pirate. “You must be tired, Steve. Why don’t you go home? We can talk tomorrow.”
“I’ll come to Barbara’s place.”
“No, don’t do that,” I said quickly. “I’m already in the car on my way.” Blast! Blast! Blast! I ended the call and spun right into Noah’s arms.
“Problems?”
“Sorry, I have to go. It’s a work emergency.” I ducked past him and went to retrieve my shoes.
I set off at a jog to get my car from Ponsford Ridge.
Perhaps it was a blessing that Steve had called. Things had been moving quicker than I expected in the romance department.
Up the track to Ponsford Ridge I went and was so consumed with what I was going to tell Steve that I failed to see the object laying across the path in the semi-darkness. I fell to the ground, hard.
Some idiot had left a bicycle just lying in the mud. Cursing, I picked myself up and realized with a start that it was a distinctive pink bicycle, circa 1940, with a large wicker basket.
It was Barbara’s.
I stared at it for a full minute until I heard the murmur of voices coming from a small copse to my left.
Tiptoeing through the undergrowth, I paused at the edge of a grassy clearing just as the moon peeped out from behind a cloud.
There, in a passionate embrace, stood Barbara and Jimmy! They weren’t doing anything disgusting like kissing—and luckily, were fully dressed—but just stared into each other’s eyes as if they were the only two people on the planet.
Frankly, the pair of them resembled a book cover from a Harlequin romance, with Barbara’s gray hair cascading down her back to match Jimmy’s unbraided tresses.
Thieves! Page 15